


Right Here Between Your Hips

by leiascully



Series: Drive [1]
Category: House M.D.
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-05-29
Updated: 2007-05-29
Packaged: 2017-10-03 06:19:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,055
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15097
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leiascully/pseuds/leiascully
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's different from the fantasy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Right Here Between Your Hips

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Stretched Out On My Bed](https://archiveofourown.org/works/995) by [zulu](https://archiveofourown.org/users/zulu/pseuds/zulu). 



> Timeline: indeterminate S3  
> A/N: This is part of a four-part collaboration with Zulu. Title's from Melissa Ferrick's "Drive".   
> Disclaimer: _House M.D._ and all related characters are the property of Shore Z, Bad Hat Harry, and Fox. No profit is made from this work and no infringement is intended.

It's different from the fantasy.

She's wearing more, not that the slip hides anything. One breast is half out of her low neckline anyway, the nipple caught on the lace, but he can see the other one just fine through the sheer fabric. He can practically count her ribs, in fact. She's got a little scar on her belly that he wants to taste. There's a hot flush up her chest and throat, her eyes are wide and hazy, and her lips are parted. Textbook afterglow. The lust slams through him until he's so hot he's lightheaded.

"I wish," she says, reaching for the toy, "that I could say that this was an unexpected surprise."

He looks her over. She is facing away from him, her head tipped back so far to meet his eyes that she's almost upside down. He watches her flick off the vibrator and drop it on the bed with an insouciance that has him half-hard all over again. What a fucking woman, to have that kind of composure. He wants to fuck her until she screams and swears at him. He wants to feel her nails in his back. Her fingers are slick and pink from being trapped inside herself. This is even more than he hoped for.

"Need a consult," he says.

Her eyelids flutter, more of a quick evaluating squint than a flirtatious gesture. The blue of her eyes darkens. His fingers twitch at his sides. He wants to roll her nipples between his fingers and taste the undersides of her breasts where the slip is damp from the heat of her skin. Play the game, he thinks. Maybe it wasn't fair of him to come in unexpected, but he found her this way, and there's no way to get around it. He needs her, needs to tell her he needed her, needs her to want him, the whole nine yards. And she's lying there like she doesn't need him or anything, and he's just hoping she sees it the same way he does. Play the game. Make this real.

"Symptoms?" she says, and now it's his cock twitching too. He moves closer, slowly, half an ache in his leg. She rolls her head trying to keep him in view. He imagines the taut arch of her back and the way she'll turn her face when he fucks her. He sits down, not as close as he wants to, but close enough to feel the heat washing off her.

"Hyperpnea and tachycardia," he says, liking the contrast of the clinical words and her goddamned transparent lace. "Dilated pupils." The cane slides to the bedcovers and then off the edge. He puts a hand on her chest, feeling the brush of the fabric under his wrist. "Nearly febrile." His voice is deep in his throat where the lust rises. He can't stop from dragging his fingertips over her smooth skin. The slip is rucked so far up her thighs she might as well not be wearing it. That's a good idea, the best he's had for a good few months. Her skin is fire under his hands and with any luck, he can stoke that furnace high enough to incinerate the both of them and five years' worth of edges that need sanding down. Mixing his metaphors - that's either a good sign or a terrible one. Her chest rises and falls and drags him back into the moment. He's got her pulse running hard against his palm.

"What tests have you run?" she says in a voice so husky it's almost gone. He wants to slide into her, all that heat. He wants the line of her throat bare to him. He wants her hands all over him. His calves are tense at the thought of her heel hooked behind them and her hands moving across his back. He casts his eyes down to the curve of her shoulder.

Her presence always was inspiring.

"This," he says, and leans close enough to whisper into the hollow of her clavicle, too close to see the goosebumps rise. She whimpers and he's hard, fuck, wanting her harder than he can remember wanting. His hand is trembling above her breast and he lets his lips ghost against her skin as he cups the breast and finally, finally finding her nipple with his mouth. He draws the little bud in with lips and teeth, tasting the nearly sweet flavor of her sweat through the cotton. Her areola puckers under his tongue, the lace rougher than the skin.

"House..." she half moans, and her fingers clutch in his hair. She does fine by herself, but he can give this to her, fill her up the way a toy can't. And she wants him to, or they wouldn't be here, and that thought has him so hard he thinks he'll shatter if he doesn't fuck her soon. He drags his chin over her breast to hear her gasp and pushes up the slip slowly. His fingertips run over the tender plane of her stomach. He lets his mouth wander until his tongue is dabbling a line along the crease under her breasts where the salt gathered when she was fucking herself. He's leaning between her legs, still stroking her stomach, and he can see she's on the edge again. Too sensitive. Just right, if memory serves.

He grins and reaches up to pinch her nipple, and he can feel it when she falls over the edge. The muscles of her stomach tense under his forearm and she gasps. He raises his head. "The patient's responding well."

"For now," she taunts, and he leans up and kisses her.

He wants the slip off. She's already spread out under him like a buffet, but he wants the freedom to sample whatever he chooses. It's difficult to shift enough to push it up. The lace catches on her breasts. "Fuck," he says into her shoulder, and she laughs and lifts her arms so he can peel the damn slip off her.

"Wouldn't want this restricting blood flow," she quips, curling under him so they're almost sitting. She puts her hot little fingers under the edge of his t-shirt and pulls, her knuckles grazing his back. He lets her pull the shirt up and off, and her hands spread over him like she's mapping his body. Her mouth moves over his in little glancing kisses. She slides her palm down his front, over his stomach and onto the bulge in his jeans. He can't help grunting. He catches at her wrist, pressing her hand down, and she rubs him through the denim.

"Cuddy," he says, and his voice is so raspy he can barely get her name out.

"Have you got a diagnosis?" she asks, undoing his zipper and slipping her clever warm hands in to grasp his cock. Her touch is familiar and certain. Hell, they've had a hundred thousand arguments and she knows every inch of him. All the blood is rushing from his brain to his groin and he leans forward, needing to touch her, his cheek pressed to her temple.

"I think," he says, his breath hitching as she strokes him, "the consult's made it clear." She laughs, low and throaty, working him over with her fingers. "Treatment could be dangerous," he says.

"When has that stopped you before?" Her voice is almost a purr, all slow honey gleaming on the edge of the jar. He must be low on oxygen to be coming up with poetics like that, but she moves her fingertips and he gasps. Never stop, he thinks. The way he's never stopped, not when it came to a patient. He didn't hesitate coming here tonight but this is new, between them. These symptoms have been untreated for a long time.

She's pushing her hands down his jeans to find his ass, a worried crinkle in her brow under his lips, but he just moves to help her. He can't even feel his thigh for the brush of her wrist over his erection. She tugs and he squirms and then he's out of the jeans, the fabric crumpling off the edge of the bed to the floor with the cane, and he's leaning on her, lying on her, and she's smaller than he remembers day to day but she's warm and welcoming. Her hips are already rolling against him, pressing her pubis into his, and he can feel the nub of her clit against his groin. He slides back against her, a little sore, but she's so slick that it hardly matters.

"House," she says in that honeyed voice, and cups his face for a kiss. He kisses her back with all the frustration of the evening: all night he's been thinking of her and now he's here. Her hands are all over him and her mouth is so hot and her thighs are smooth and firm under his imperfect ones. She whispers into his mouth and he can barely understand the words "fuck me" but they send a shiver through him. He groans. She shifts under him, parting her legs a little more, and he shifts with her.

And then he's there: parting her with his fingers, sliding in, and her nails needle into his back. He groans and she groans and slides her calf up the back of his, her hands cupping his ass, pulling him in hard, like she wants him sheathed to the hilt as much as he wants it. It's her and she's _real_ and it's fucking good.

She's close, he estimates, the way she's panting against his neck, and the way she squeezes around him when he hits the right spots. Good that they both had a warmup. He hasn't got the patience to be careful tonight, just the need that's burning in him, all his nerves in his cock and balls. He's almost shoving into her but it's so perfect, and she's talking but he can't really hear it, only the open vowel and a hiss at the end. He can hear it when she comes, and he can feel it, the ripple of her whole body and the way she wraps her limbs around him and urges him on. He's so out of his mind with the bliss of it all that he can hardly see: she's just a flash of blue and pale and dark and flush and she's hot and wet and holding him so tight and the whole room is spinning as his muscles clench and release and they're creating universes with all this energy, her cunt and his cock. He slumps into her embrace.

"Fuck, Cuddy," he pants, breathing hard, half on her and half on the bed, and sliding out of her even though he wants to stay in until he gets limp, just to feel her around him. His face is mashed into her pillows and he turns against her neck for fresher air. Her arms loosen around him, her fingers trailing slowly up and down his spine. He relaxes, catching his breath for a long moment, there with her, and then he reaches slowly over the side of the bed for his jeans to find his pills and dry swallow one. It's an effort. All the liquid in his body seems to have rushed out his cock or his skin, though his blood hums in his ears. He hopes she'll let him stay. It's a long way home to an empty bed otherwise, but he knows how she is about second thoughts. He tries not to look at her and curls his fingers over her hipbone instead.

He meant to tell her, about the patient, but it's different now. He waits. Maybe he'll tell her in the morning. She's warm and relaxed and there's a lot of things he should say that it isn't quite the time for. He feels the vibration of her voice through her bones before he hears her.

"Did you get the diagnosis right?" Her voice is a sleepy satisfied murmur.

The game.

"Not sure yet." He eases down, grinning. She smiles back, eyes half closed, curling her body to make a place for him. He puffs a breath against her shoulder. "Calls for observation. Never know when you might need another dose."


End file.
